


Life and The Holmes Brothers

by S_G_M



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Parentlock, Porn, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2017-12-28 04:53:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_G_M/pseuds/S_G_M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock are married, and have a baby daughter, Hamish.   </p><p>Mycroft does his best to be supportive as Greg continues to battle depression and learn to accept himself, while John and Sherlock work on an unusual case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Greg Lestrade awoke to soft rolling thunder on a grey Saturday morning, his fiancé sleeping soundly to his left.

He blinked his warm brown eyes a few times, his vision adjusting. 

For a short while, Greg merely lay there, looking up at the delicately ornate ceiling.

He didn’t have to go in to work today, with it being his day off, which was fortunate.

Greg had been feeling down for the past few days, and that morning he was feeling just a touch worse.

Most people were quite unaware that Greg suffered from depression, which had begun in his early childhood.

Mycroft, of course, had effortlessly discerned this fact, and had been remarkably supportive whenever Greg found himself sinking into the darkness once more.

Greg rolled closer to Mycroft, nestling against him.

Mycroft gave a small moan in his slumber, and then stretched out, putting an arm around Greg.

Greg closed his eyes, finding himself drifting back into sleep as he breathed in Mycroft’s scent.

 

 

Meanwhile, in 221 B Baker Street, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were taking breakfast.

Well, that is to say, John ate his morning meal, while Sherlock read the paper and sipped at a cup of black tea.

As John buttered half of a crumpet, he glanced out the window at the rainy weather.

“Well, there go our plans for the day…” John sighed in disappointment.

Sherlock lowered his paper, looking at John with a kind expression on his face.

He knew how much John had been looking forward to today. After all, John had been going on about it for the majority of yesterday afternoon.

“The weather should clear up soon enough, and we can reschedule easily.” Sherlock reminded him. “There will be plenty of time for Hamish’s first play date.”

John nodded.

“You’re right, of course.” John replied. “It’s just a little disappointing, that’s all.”

Sherlock finished his tea and stood up, beginning to prepare a bottle for Hamish.

“Why don’t we just have everyone come here?” John asked suddenly.

Sherlock gave him a look.

“Honestly, John.” He began. “Do you think that it would be such a wise idea having them come here?”

John blinked. “Well, I don’t see why not, Sherlock.” He said, getting to his feet.

Sherlock gestured towards the kitchen, where the countertops were covered in assorted apparatus equipment and a small selection of organs hooked up to it.

John glanced over to the area with an annoyed look on his face.

“Ah, yes…” He said a little pointedly. “Well, maybe just once in a while you can leave off with the experiments and we can have company over.”

Sherlock frowned slightly.

“It would be nice to have some of the other parents over, considering that it's not only Hamish that needs to socialise.” John stated bluntly.

Sherlock knew that it would be best to agree with John on this matter. He did have a point, after all.

“Yes, fine.” Sherlock replied, scooping powdered formula into an empty bottle and then filling it with warm water.

 

 

Mycroft and Greg awoke to the sound of shattering glass just outside their bedroom in the corridor.

Mycroft hopped from the bed, pulling a black silk dressing gown over his nude body and looking out into the corridor to find the cause of the clatter.

James, a new hire, had tripped over his own feet and had fallen against one of the pedestals which had been holding a rather expensive crystal vase and flowers.

Mycroft rolled his eyes before he helped the lad to his feet, telling him to go get cleaned up.

James had a deep gash in his thigh where a large piece of glass had been embedded, along with a few minor cuts on his leg.

Greg, dressed in his blue cotton pyjamas, joined Mycroft in the hall.

Noticing the blood running down the young man's leg, and that James was having difficulty walking due to the most severe injury, Greg told him to stay where he was while he fetched the small first aid kit he always kept with him while he was on shift.

He had the young man lean against the wall as he skillfully removed the glass from James’ leg.

“There, that should do the trick.” Greg muttered, as he placed a bandage over the wound.

“Thank you very much, Sir. I'm very sorry to have broken the vase, I'll repay the cost of it.” James told him earnestly, before leaving to retrieve the items that he'd need to clean up the mess that he'd made.

Mycroft had watched the scene, leaning against the wall.

While he was rather annoyed that James had obliterated the crystal vase that he’d purchased at an auction for £1,500, he knew that Greg often disliked it when he was disciplinary to the staff.

Admittedly, he could be rather harsh at times.

And, though he felt that James would have deserved a few choice words, he held his tongue.

After all, it had been an accident.

 

 

Greg went to wash his hands, and then he sat down on the bed.

He looked so… Tired.

Mycroft went over to Greg, sitting next to him.

“I think that perhaps a nice bath, with the addition of peppermint oil, may lend you some rejuvenation.” Mycroft told him softly, wanting so much for Greg to feel like his usual self.

Greg leaned his head on Mycroft’s shoulder.

“I really don’t want to be alone right now…” Greg told him quietly, not mustering the nerve to ask for Mycroft to stay with him.

He hated asking for anything, it always made him feel like such a burden.

Mycroft gave him a gentle squeeze.

“All right.” He said comfortingly. “Then, I suppose I could always join you, should you like.”

Greg thought that might be quite nice, and agreed.

 

 

As Sherlock fed Hamish, holding her in his long arms, he sat in his preferred armchair.

Hamish looked up into his face, her vivid cerulean eyes watching him closely.

Sherlock grinned down at her, pulling a face to amuse her when he’d thought that John hadn’t been looking.

The barely concealed snort of laughter informed Sherlock that he’d been wrong.

John blinked, looking away and pretending that he hadn’t noticed anything, after Sherlock had shot him a glare out of the tops of his eyes.

“What?” Sherlock asked indignantly, looking up from their daughter.

John put his hands up. “Nothing, nothing at all.” He lied transparently, wishing that he’d been able to capture that little moment on film.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Well, Hamish does need some sort of stimulation to entertain her.” He replied defensively.

“I didn’t say anything.” John grinned.

“Not verbally.” Sherlock countered, adjusting Hamish.

John sat on one of the arms of the chair, smiling down at the baby.

“Her hair is really starting to come in nicely.” John remarked.

Sherlock agreed with a nod.

Hamish had been born with a rather bald scalp, and for the first couple of months her hair hadn’t seemed to be growing at all.

But then, in her third month of life, her hair had begun to come in.

At nearly four months, she had sprouted rather short, sandy coloured curls.

“I can’t believe that she’s almost four months old already…” John said thoughtfully. “The time is just going so quickly.”

Hamish reached out a grabby little hand, gathering a small amount of Sherlock’s shirt in her fist.

“Yes, it is.” Sherlock murmered softly, wondering if time would continue to pass so swiftly until Hamish was fully grown.

Hamish was beginning to refuse the bottle, and so Sherlock set it on the coffee table.

He held her against his chest and began to pat her back.

 

 

As the sizable Jacuzzi tub filled with water, Greg sat on the side of it, staring off into space as Mycroft attended to some brief, minor task.

A few minutes later, after the tub was full and Greg had slipped into the tub, Mycroft quietly entered the room.

He disrobed, lowered the lights just a touch, and stepped into the warm water.

Mycroft settled himself behind Greg, beginning to gently massage his neck and shoulders.

“As I suspected.” Mycroft told him. “Your muscles are quite knotted.”

Greg gave a little moan, as Mycroft found a particularly tense area where his neck met his shoulders.

Mycroft leaned in and placed a kiss on Greg’s cheek.

“It isn’t like you to be so terribly quiet for this long.” Mycroft began in a soft, concerned tone.

Greg took a deep breath.

It was true; he had been practically silent for the past few days, although he wasn’t entirely certain as to why this time was so different from any other bout of depression that he’d previously experienced.

But, whatever the reason, he simply didn’t feel much like speaking.

“I’m sorry, My, I don’t know what’s with me…” Greg said in exhaustion.

Mycroft continued massaging the tight muscles.

“My dear, there is no need for such an apology.” Mycroft told him soothingly. “I’m merely a little worried, that’s all.”

Greg wanted to be able to snap out of it, like so many people in his past had told him to, but as anyone who’s ever experienced depression knows, that is an impossible thing to accomplish.

He hated making Mycroft worry about him.

“I am though, I’m sorry.” Greg said, suddenly feeling notably worse.

Mycroft stopped the massage, and embraced Greg tightly.

“It’s all right, Greg.” Mycroft intoned comfortingly, despising what Greg was feeling and wanting more than anything to chase it away.

While Mycroft had never personally experienced such depression, he knew quite a lot about it. 

In fact, upon the discovery that his love suffered from it, he had thoroughly researched it so that he could have as much understanding as was possible.

Greg leaned into Mycroft, placing his head against the slightly fuzzy chest.

Mycroft knew that words were practically useless right then, so he did his very best to comfort Greg through touch.

He held Greg close, running a hand along Greg’s arm.

“Thank you.” Greg told him, glad to have someone that cared so deeply for him and who tried so hard to take care of him.

Mycroft kissed the top of his head.

“Oh, my dear, you are more than welcome.” He replied tenderly.

 

 

The rain had begun to pour, and the thunder had intensified, frightening Hamish.

As John held the bawling infant, gently swaying to help calm her, Sherlock frowned and felt useless.

Nothing that he’d done seemed to soothe Hamish at all, although it was the same case with John.

And he loathed it.

The sound of Hamish’s crying was one of the worst sounds that he’d ever heard, and whenever he was unable to make things more comfortable for her and failed, Sherlock felt utterly terrible.

Of course, he realised that there were going to be times when Hamish would cry and nothing would help, but he still felt awful.

Toby, their young bloodhound, sat beside Sherlock’s chair.

“Good dog.” Sherlock muttered, rubbing the animal’s left ear.

John had brought Toby in last autumn, when he was a very young pup.

The poor thing had been half-starved, dehydrated, and suffering terribly from the heat.

There were no identifiable marks of ownership by anyone, and it was more than likely that the poor bedraggled thing was a stray.

John had intended to call the pound to pick Toby up, however Sherlock had decided that the pup should at least be fed and watered beforehand.

Of course, the pound had never been called, and Toby stayed as a pet.

John had been surprised that Sherlock had taken to the animal, and John hadn’t minded at all.

Mrs. Hudson had taken some convincing, but it had been relatively easy enough to sway her after showing her the creature.

A rather sharp clap of thunder made John jump, and the sound and sudden jolt caused Hamish to cry all the harder.

Her poor little face was red and puffy from all the crying, and John felt guilty for upsetting her further.

Toby began to whine, Hamish’s cries hurting his sensitive ears.

Sherlock stood up and walked over to John, taking the baby from him and holding her to his chest.

He began to hum softly, hoping to lull her into a more peaceful state.

Sherlock swayed slowly on the spot, ever so gently jiggling her in his arms.

Hamish began to quiet down just a wee bit, and Sherlock began to quietly sing to her.

 

“Hush, little baby, don't say a word,

Papa's going to buy you a mockingbird.

And if that mockingbird won't sing,

Papa's going to buy you a diamond ring.

And if that diamond ring turns brass,

Papa's going to buy you a looking glass.

And if that looking glass gets broken,

Papa's going to buy you a billy goat.

And if that billy goat won't pull,

Papa's going to buy you a cart and bull.

And if that cart and bull turn over,

Papa's going to buy you a dog named Rover.

And if that dog named Rover won't bark,

Papa's going to buy you a horse and cart.

And if that horse and cart fall down,

You'll still be the sweetest little baby in town.”

 

Hamish hadn’t completely stopped crying, although the cries had diminished greatly.

It had helped that the thunder had begun to subside, though the rain was coming down heavier than ever.

Sherlock didn’t often sing lullabies to Hamish around John, because though he was loath to admit it, he was just ever so slightly self-conscious about it.

John hadn’t been able to keep from watching Sherlock singing to Hamish, the adoration on John’s face not going unnoticed.

Sherlock sat down again, as Hamish yawned widely.

“There we go.” Sherlock told her softly, stroking her tiny cheek.

“You can stop staring any time now, John.” He added in slight amusement.

John blinked. 

“What? Oh, right, then…” John mumbled, averting his eyes and clearing his throat a little sharply.

“Shhh!” Sherlock hushed him quietly, as Hamish began to close her eyes.

John gave him a sheepish look.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s mobile buzzed in his pocket.

Ever since Hamish had first come home from the hospital, Sherlock had kept his phone on vibrate when at home to keep from disturbing their daughter.

“John…” Sherlock whispered. “My mobile.”

John silently walked over, removing Sherlock’s phone from his pocket and showing him the message, which had turned out to have been from a wrong number.

Of course, this was disappointing to Sherlock, who had been hopeful for news of a case.

It had been a fortnight or so since any hint of a case had turned up, and the last one had been exceedingly straightforward to unravel.

John put the mobile back in Sherlock’s pocket, and sat down alongside him.

Hamish was fully asleep by now, and Sherlock felt confident enough to put her in her crib for the duration of her nap.

Afterwards, John and Sherlock lay down together, neither of them feeling all that tired.

 

 

After a lengthy bath, Greg and Mycroft had a cup of tea each.

Mycroft made an attempt to engage in conversation with Greg once more, but as he’d suspected, it was a useless attempt.

Greg was more difficult to read when he was depressed, which made things a bit less easy for Mycroft.

He wanted to be able to discern exactly what it was that Greg needed at times like this, and while he was still able to get a good idea of what might affect Greg more positively, he hated that he wasn’t able to be certain.

All that Mycroft knew to be fact at the moment was that Greg didn’t want to be alone.

“Would you enjoy viewing a television programme after we’ve finished with our tea?” Mycroft inquired.

He wasn’t exactly fond of television, but as Greg watched it from time to time, he’d had a large flat screen installed in the den.

Greg gave a sort of ‘why not?’ gesture with his hand.

Mycroft nodded, knowing that words weren’t going to be of much use for a while.

 

 

After they’d finished their tea, Mycroft and Greg went into the living room.

As Greg sat down on the large crimson sofa, Mycroft brought the remote control to him.

Greg pressed the button which opened the cabinet that concealed the large television set, and turned it on.

He chose one of his favourite films, entitled ‘All My Loved Ones’.

 

 

Considering that Hamish was sound asleep, and neither John nor Sherlock were tired in the least, John took the opportunity to lean over and kiss Sherlock deeply, stirring him up.

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows, kissing John back fervently.

Since Hamish had arrived, for the most part, John and Sherlock had been too tired and/or too busy for any truly satisfying love-making sessions.

They were lucky enough to know of a couple of trustworthy people to care for Hamish for an afternoon, but often John and Sherlock ended up taking some much needed rest.

Which is why they would take this opportunity before it was gone, hoping that they would have at least an hour or so to themselves.

John broke the kiss momentarily to straddle Sherlock’s hips, noting the growing bulge pressing against the crevice of his buttocks.

As he pressed his lips to Sherlock’s once more, opening his mouth to and tasting Sherlock's mouth unabashedly, he circled his hips a few times, increasing the friction between them and causing Sherlock to make a soft little noise.

As Sherlock grew harder, the fabric between them that restrained his manhood was becoming unbearable.

John began to take his time unbuttoning Sherlock’s immaculately white shirt, exploring his mouth the entire time, and resting his weight on Sherlock’s hips.

Sherlock’s breath hitched in his throat as the pressure from the clothing and John’s body on his erection began to become painful.

John noticed this, and lifted his arse off of Sherlock to help him out of his shirt, before removing the undershirt beneath it.

Then, John reached down and undid Sherlock’s trousers, reaching into his bee patterned pants and freeing Sherlock’s rock hard 7 ½ inch cock to spring forwards.

He began to use his mouth along Sherlock’s smooth chest, paying close attention to the puckered, rosy nipples.

As John leisurely toured Sherlock’s firm body with his hands and mouth, removing Sherlock’s trousers and pants in the process, Sherlock closed his eyes.

It seemed like eternity before John began to tease the tip of Sherlock’s cock, lapping at the pre-cum that had begun to ooze down his length.

John gently mouthed the tip, before popping the head into his mouth, sucking away as though Sherlock were a tootsie pop that John desperately wanted to get to the middle of.

Sherlock waited as patiently as he could for John to make his next moves, anticipating what he craved awfully, the need becoming insufferable.

John took his time in teasing Sherlock.

It seemed like an eternity before Sherlock suddenly felt John take his full erection into his hot little mouth and down his throat. 

The hiss that Sherlock made as he took a deep breath through gritted teeth pleased John.

He bobbed his head rhythmically, sucking away skillfully, as he wrapped a hand around his own 7 inches.

Sherlock could feel that delicious warmth begin to spread throughout his body, and as he felt himself begin to plummet over the edge and into blissful oblivion, he arched his back.

But then, just before his orgasm overtook him, John stopped, and clambered over Sherlock until their cocks were pressed against one another.

John encircled both of their lengths securely, moving his hands at a decent pace, bringing them both to the brink.

“Fuck… Oh my fu- Mmph, oh fuckFUCKfuck…” John choked out, the waves of pleasure washing over him, the evidence bursting forth in hot white streams.

Sherlock’s body tensed as shivers ran through him, the jolts of orgasm pulsing through his entire form as he gushed over John’s hands and chest.

 

 

Once it was over, John lay down next to Sherlock, catching his breath before going to wash up.

But, just as he got comfortable, they heard Hamish begin to wail loudly.

John closed his eyes, a pained expression on his face.

Sherlock kissed his cheek.

“I’ve got her this time.” He told John, picking his undershirt up from off the floor and putting it on.

He stood up, pulled on his pants, and washed his hands before heading to the nursery, leaving John to take a shower.

 

 

“What’s the matter, little one?” Sherlock cooed softly, picking his crying daughter up.

As he gathered her in his arms, her cries began to wane.

“That’s right, Papa’s here.” Sherlock reassured her quietly. “I’m here.”

Hamish looked up at him, reaching a hand out to touch his face.

Sherlock bent his neck, letting her get a hold of his nose, which for whatever reason, amused her greatly.

Hamish grinned widely, and let out a happy noise.

Sherlock couldn’t help but grin back, as he straightened his neck.

He couldn’t imagine how his life would be if he hadn’t met John that fateful day; how his life would be without his family.

He found himself sitting down in the rocking chair situated in the corner of the room, and telling Hamish all about the day that he and John had met.


	2. Chapter 2

Later on that day, after they’d watched a couple of films and eaten dinner, Greg felt like taking a walk and asked Mycroft if he would join him.

The rain had stopped, and the sun began to filter through the thinning clouds, making everything sparkle in a breathtakingly beautiful way.

“Of course.” Mycroft had agreed easily, knowing that this was a good sign.

Greg never wanted to do very much at all when he was down, and the fact that he’d actually suggested doing something this substantial meant that the bout was beginning to wane.

For the moment, if nothing else.

And so, they got their shoes on and headed outside into the warm mugginess.

 

 

The estate that Mycroft and Greg resided at was situated mere minutes away from London by car, and it didn’t take them long to reach the city on foot.

There was nowhere in particular that Greg had in mind, he just needed to go somewhere. 

Anywhere.

It was a difficult thing to explain, but there were just times when Greg had the urge to just keep walking until he couldn’t physically go on.

There was no real reason to it, it was simply something that came on every once in a while.

Mycroft understood this perfectly, and whenever he joined Greg on such outings, he never asked where they were going or how long they would be.

He quietly accompanied Greg, listening to anything that he might have to say and offering the odd remark for a touch of conversation.

As they walked through the nearby park, Mycroft glanced at Greg.

He wore a deep frown, and Mycroft knew that there was something that was being kept from him.

Mycroft was relatively certain that it was something to do with him, although what, he was having a rather difficult time in discerning.

Greg sighed.

“You’re doing it again…” He stated, quite used to Mycroft's deductive glances.

Although he made an effort to keep from reading Greg as much as he used to, more out of habit than anything, Mycroft still ended up making his analyses about Greg regardless.

Mycroft cleared his throat softly.

“I’m sorry,” He began. “I’m afraid that it’s quite a trying habit to break.”

Greg gave him a small half-smile. “Especially when you’re worrying about me.” Greg commented quietly.

“You want to know what’s bothering me, I understand that. It’s just… Well, it’s not something that’s easy for me to bring up, that’s all.” He added, blowing out a breath.

Mycroft put an arm about Greg’s shoulder.

“If this is something that you’d rather not share, then by all means, keep it to yourself.” Mycroft told him gently, not wanting Greg to feel pressured. “You needn’t tell me simply to keep me from worrying.”

Greg stopped for a moment, looking into Mycroft’s blue eyes as though he were searching for something but didn’t know what.

As he began to walk again, he suddenly felt going home.

“I…” Greg began, before taking a deep breath and giving up on finishing that sentence.

He wanted to be able to say what it was that was on his mind, but something prevented him from doing so.

Mycroft gave him an encouraging nod. “Yes, Greg, what is it?” He asked, trying to coax the words out of his fiance.

Greg gave a tense laugh.

“No, don’t worry about it. Really, it’s stupid.” Greg told him, swallowing a little hard.

Whatever it was that was upsetting Greg, it was something substantial.

It was easier to deal with when Greg was simply depressed, for no real reason other than that he had the condition, then when it was coupled with an actual problem.

Mycroft stepped over to him, embracing him tightly.

“You can tell me anything that you want to, love, and you know that I won’t judge you for it.” Mycroft told him in hushed tones.

Greg put his arms around Mycroft in return, taking a moment before trying to get the rest of the words out.

“Right, well, first off, I know how silly this is probably going to sound…” Greg said, letting go of Mycroft and taking a small step back.

His face was sombre, and he was feeling a touch self-conscious.

Greg shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from fiddling.

“But, the thing is, My…” He began, wondering if he should continue.

Greg blinked, taking a moment before going on.

“Despite everything, whenever I’m out and about, I still feel like I need to hide the fact that I’m gay.” He stated bitterly.

“I mean, with the rampant homophobia that plagues society, I just feel like I have to put on the same act that I’ve been using for the past thirty years.”

Greg turned a little pink.

“And, then there’s the fact that I’ve never entirely grown comfortable with how I am.” He added in frustration.

"I know that I should be able to deal with all this, but it's difficult to do. I mean, I'm married to a man, and I still can't get over things... For fuck's sake, shouldn't I feel comfortable with myself by now?" 

Greg let out a stressed laugh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

There was still a fair amount that was being left unsaid, and Mycroft sensed this.

“It’s just, even when we’re out together, after all this time, I still put on that mask, still try and act ‘straight’ because I’m…” Greg stopped.

“Afraid.” Mycroft finished for him, recalling his early twenties when he’d been experiencing much the same thing. “I know, love.”

Greg bit his lip, hating to admit it.

He’d thought that telling Mycroft the truth about how he felt might have made him feel better somehow, if only by a small amount.

Yet, he found himself suddenly feeling much worse.

“Damn it!” Greg swore, beginning to feel sick to his stomach and angry with himself for being so weak, unable to continue speaking his mind.

Mycroft’s brows knit together, feeling the pain that Greg was in, remembering how difficult it had been to overcome it all those years ago.

He knew well that some people never were able to fully accept themselves as they were, that there were some who despised themselves to such an extent that they couldn't manage simply living.

That Greg seemed to border on self-loathing with this part of him was quite worrisome.

Greg had tried very hard to push his true sexuality down for decades, even going so far as getting married twice to women, though of course those marriages had failed.

He’d gone so long ignoring such an important part of him, that it was only in the past couple of years that Greg had found himself acknowledging that it even existed.

Mycroft had known from the beginning that it would take a great deal of work to maintain a healthy relationship with Greg, but had fully believed that it was worth the effort.

He’d only felt love like this for just one other person, and they were now lost to him.

Mycroft needed Greg, and would do anything to make him happy.

This relationship was something that was utterly worth every effort, and Greg didn’t quite seem to realise just how profoundly significant he truly was to Mycroft.

As much as he would have liked to embrace Greg once more, to try to comfort him in that way and try to chase away the pain and sadness, he knew all too well that Greg would simply push him away.

“What you have just admitted is a far cry from being ‘silly’. You have a rather valid fear, especially considering the sorts of hate crimes against our community over the years. That you have come across a number of them in your line of work certainly does not assist in quelling such fears.” Mycroft began, allowing himself to fiddle with his wedding ring as he spoke. "Despite the fact that there are many who would lash out at us for what we need romantically and sexually, you must remember that there are just as many who are our allies."

“And while it may take longer than you might expect, I think that you’ll find that if you permit yourself to simply let a little more of who you really are through each time, then it will soon come about that you’ll find that you no longer require such a façade.” He paused to let Greg take this in.

“Of course, such a task will not prove to be an easy one. And, I won’t lie to you; you may never be able to fully adjust to the reality of yourself.” Mycroft gave him a tiny smile. “However, I am fully confident that you have it within yourself to overcome this obstacle. I believe in you.”

Greg had heard Mycroft clearly, knew that the words that he’d said made perfect sense.

And yet, he wasn’t sure that he had what it took to do such a thing.

How could he make such a huge change after all this time?

Not to mention what people might say…

Greg always had taken too much of what he’d heard to heart, despite trying not to.

“And you know that if there is anything that I can do to make things easier for you, then I shall.” Mycroft added with a nod.

Greg’s expression softened a little.

“Yes, My, I know.” He replied, taking a small amount of comfort in the words.

“Good.” Mycroft stated. “Now, I think that perhaps we ought to head back, it looks as though it may begin to rain again soon.”

Greg glanced up at the dark clouds gathering above them, smelling the precipitation in the air.

“Yeah, you’re right.” He said, feeling as though he was shouldering a massive weight.

And with that, the couple began walking home in silence.

 

 

That evening, as Sherlock read aloud to Hamish from one of his old notebooks that he’d used to scribble things down about certain cases, John protested.

“Come now, John, it isn’t as though she can appreciate what I’m saying.” Sherlock told him in mild amusement as John crossed his arms grumpily.

“That’s not the point!” He huffed. “It’s not… Appropriate for a child, now is it?”

Sherlock read Hamish another line in gentle tones, before looking back to John with a small grin on his face.

“If she cannot comprehend my words, then how can it be inappropriate?” Sherlock countered, knowing that John wouldn’t be able to come up with a decent answer.

Of course, he was correct.

“I… I don’t know, it just is!” John told him stubbornly.

Sherlock looked a touch smug.

“Right, well, when you can come up with a proper argument against what I’m doing, then perhaps I shall cease.” He stated stubbornly, but then changed his mind.

John was practically pouting, and looking absolutely miserable.

“Oh, for goodness sake, John… If it really does bother you that much, then I will stop.” He said, trying to pacify his husband.

“Yes, it does bother me that much.” John told him a little crossly. “And you know that quite well, Sherlock.”

Sherlock set the small notebook down, standing up and passing Hamish to John.

“I’m going to put the kettle on, would you like a cup of tea?” He asked, stretching his arms, his shirt riding up and exposing his firm abdomen.

John slowly licked his lower lip.

“Uh, no, that’s fine.” He said, a little distracted by the flash of flesh.

Sherlock gave him a knowing half-smile, before walking past him into the kitchen.

John sat down, and took a children’s book from the shelf beside the sofa.

“Now for a real story.” John told Hamish, smiling down at her.

But, just as he was about to begin reading the story to her, his mobile rang.

The call display notified him that it was DI Dimmock calling.

John wondered what on earth Dimmock was doing calling him.

If it was about a case, people always called Sherlock, not him.

“Hello?” John responded, curious.

“Hello, John, I tried to reach Holmes, but he isn’t answering his mobile.” Came Dimmock’s voice, the irritation he was feeling coming across quite clearly.

John frowned.

“That’s odd…” He said, thinking that there must be something wrong with Sherlock’s phone.

“Hold on, I’ll get him for you.” John said, covering the mouthpiece.

“Sherlock.” He called out, just loud enough to be heard.

Sherlock came out of the kitchen, his bare feet padding softly against the floor.

John passed him the phone.

Sherlock took it, wondering why Dimmock hadn't been able to reach him on his mobile, as John told him what was going on.

“Yes, what is it?” Sherlock inquired, hoping that something very interesting was in store.

It had been a while since he’d had a case that even remotely challenged his abilities, which was very disappointing to Sherlock.

As he listened, he checked his mobile, which had seemingly died.

 

 

Jack Harcourt, a man in his late 40’s had been found, his body impaled on a steel spiked fence that surrounded the property of one Daniel Santiago, a government official who was seemingly innocent.

There had been a similar finding four days previously, on the opposite end of London.

The autopsy of that corpse had rendered one specific clue.

The stomach contents of the first victim had been a large amount of partly digested kale and celery stew, and one hard yellow plastic capsule that contained a small amount of flesh.

Human flesh.

Jack Harcourt’s autopsy had yielded a similar capsule, this one being a deep shade of blue, which had also contained a piece of flesh.

This was something that Sherlock hadn’t come across before, and so naturally, he hadn’t hesitated in agreeing to work on the case.

After informing John of the development, he put his shoes and signature jacket on.

“Right, well, do you think you might be able to pick up some milk while you’re out?” John asked, covering Hamish with a light green baby blanket.

Sherlock sighed.

“Yes, John.” He responded, before leaning down to place a kiss on the other man’s soft lips. “I’ll see you later.”

John nodded, and Sherlock turned and left, closing the flat’s door as quietly as he could before locking up.

 

 

Though it was still early, Greg felt exhausted and had decided to go to bed.

Since Greg still needed him to stay close by, Mycroft had accompanied him to the bedroom.

Despite closing his eyes, and clearing his mind as best as he could manage, Greg could not fall asleep.

“My?” Greg called softly, suspecting that he was still awake.

“Yes, my dear?” Came Mycroft’s gentle voice.

“Do you ever regret getting involved with me?” He asked, having had the question on his mind for the past while. “I mean, I know that I’ve got to be a little difficult to put up with sometimes, and that you’ve felt like you have to take care of me more often than you should… Among other things.”

Mycroft reached out and brought Greg close, letting his arm rest along Greg’s torso.

“I have never, nor do I believe I ever shall have such a regret.” Mycroft answered him, his voice going slightly deeper with the emotion that he was permitting to wash over him.

“One of the best decisions that I have yet made has been to make you mine, becoming yours in the process.” He went on, kissing Greg’s cheek, before moving to his lips.

“I have always known that you are damaged, just a little broken. Just as many people are.” He took a moment before continuing. “And that has never been a hindrance. It never will be.” Mycroft finished, as Greg leaned up for another kiss.

Of course, Mycroft obliged him.

“What did I ever do to deserve you, My?” Greg quietly asked, looking into those intelligent blue eyes.

Mycroft gave him a small smile.

“I have often wondered the same in regards to you.” He replied honestly, as Greg cuddled into him.

As time slowly passed, Greg eventually fell into the sleep that his body so desperately needed.

 

 

Sherlock arrived at Bart’s morgue not too long after he’d received Dimmock’s phone call.

As he walked into the morgue, Molly greeted him warmly with a bright smile.

“Hello!” She said, happy to see him.

Molly had long given up any hope of having any sort of chance with Sherlock, especially after the wedding.

Still, after everything, she considered him to be a friend.

Or at least, if nothing else, she considered herself to be his friend.

Sherlock gave her a bit of a smile, before returning her greeting.

Dimmock waited in the doorway, knowing to keep quiet and let Sherlock do his thing.

Molly unzipped a body bag, revealing the naked body of Jack Harcourt.

There were multiple deep wounds along the corpse where the steel fence spikes had pierced the flesh.

The cause of death, however, had not been due to the obvious injury.

Instead, the killer had introduced several quick doses of H2O2 into the victim’s blood stream, oxidising the blood, as well as producing a certain amount of oxygen.

Harcourt’s veins had severe chemical burns, and his death had been a fairly slow and agonising one.

Sherlock searched the body for anything unusual, and just as he was about to walk away from the body, he noticed a small incision on the man’s inner thigh.

As he bent over to inspect it more closely, Molly frowned.

“That… That’s new.” She told him, a touch of alarm in her voice. “I know that wasn’t there when I performed the autopsy at seven twenty-three.

Sherlock blinked.

“Yes, I know.” He replied in a thoughtful tone. “This was done perhaps a half hour ago, judging by the condition of the skin.” 

He straightened up, grabbing a scalpel from a nearby tray.

“Who else had access in the past forty-five minutes?” Sherlock inquired, leaning back down and slicing through the stitches in the leg.

Molly shook her head, glancing at the sign in sheet on the clipboard hanging on the wall. "I really don't know... Everyone has to sign in, and there's no record of anyone other than myself and the both of you entering this room." She told him, pulling her blonde hair back into a ponytail at the base of her neck. 

Sherlock’s eyes sparkled, as he made a small sound of delighted interest.

“Pass me the tweezers.” He ordered, and Molly complied.

Sherlock used them to remove something flat and metal that had been embedded into the muscle tissues.

A £1 coin.

Interesting…

“Molly, the other victim, Gerald Chesham, I’ll need to take a look at him as well.” Sherlock told her, straightening up and putting the coin in a small zipper bag, before setting the tweezers down.

“I, um, well, I don’t know if I can…” Molly told him falteringly. “I mean, I’d like to, but you know that I’ve gotten in trouble before for letting you look at bodies without being cleared to.”

Dimmock took this opportunity to speak up from his stance in near the doorway.

“Just let me make a few calls, I’ll get this sorted.” He stated, holding up a finger.

He left the room, and ten minutes later, he had permission to have Chesham’s body searched.

 

 

Not surprisingly, Sherlock found a stitched wound on the inner thigh of the man, and another £1 piece.

Sherlock’s lips formed a small grin.

Finally, a case where the solution wasn’t practically instantaneously obvious to him.

He glanced over to Dimmock, who’d cleared his throat.

“It looks as though we have a potential serial killer on the loose.” Dimmock uttered, crossing his arms.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, biting back a scathing remark.

Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow at the man, walking past him out into the hallway.

Before he left the room, he turned back momentarily.

“Thank-you, Molly.” He said with a nod.

She smiled, and told him that he was welcome before Sherlock left, Dimmock following him down the hall.

There really wasn't all that much more to be done at that point, with it being so late in the day, and so after a brief discussion with Dimmock, Sherlock took a cab home ruminating on what he'd discovered in regards to the case at hand.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, after breakfast, John and Sherlock left Hamish in the care of their landlady, Mrs. Hudson as they began to work on the case.

Of course, Mrs. Hudson didn’t mind looking after the infant at all.

She never did, despite the fact that it was often tiring for her.

As they got into a cab that Sherlock had hailed, a sudden random realisation popped into John's head.

Sherlock’s birthday was just short of a fortnight away and he hadn’t even given the slightest thought to it.

With everything that had been going on in both his personal and professional lives, he simply hadn’t gotten around to thinking about the occasion.

John had wanted to do something different this year, to actually catch Sherlock off guard with something really special.

Of course, that would be a first, with Sherlock’s keen ability to deduct fairly anything and everything with seemingly little effort.

He would have to be incredibly diligent in his plans, leave no scrap of clue hanging about the flat and try not to think about it around Sherlock, or there would simply be no surprise.

Each year John tried to give Sherlock some sort of birthday surprise, and each year, Sherlock had figured things out without with great ease.

John was fairly certain that this time round, if he did his very best, then he could manage to pull it off.

At least, he hoped that he could.

Especially if he began his prep work this far ahead of time.

 

The cab drove over a bump in the road, jostling John from his thoughts.

He noticed Sherlock watching him intently, his eyes ever so slightly narrowed as he tried to piece together what it was that John was thinking.

“You’re up to something.” Sherlock told him shrewdly. “What is it?”

John shook his head, trying to look as though it were some minor, insignificant thing that he’d been dwelling on.

“Oh, just a few boring ideas, really… Nothing that would be of any interest to you, I’m sure.” He replied vaguely, giving a small shrug.

Sherlock wasn’t altogether convinced, but let it go.

John looked out the window at a group of school children walking along in a line, out on some sort of excursion.

It wasn’t all that long of a trip, and they had reached the station in less than twenty minutes.

Dimmock had sent another text message to John’s mobile, as Sherlock’s was still out of commission.

Four more bodies had been discovered, however this time the method of murder had been rather different.

 

 

Meanwhile, Greg and Mycroft slept in, slumbering peacefully as the rest of the city began bustling with activity.

It was nearly eleven o’clock when Greg awoke, inadvertently jostling Mycroft awake as he got out of bed.

“Sorry…” Greg apologised blearily.

Mycroft glanced at the wrought iron timepiece that adorned the south wall.

“I’ve gotten quite enough sleep, it’s no bother at all.” Mycroft assured him, slipping his pale legs over the edge of the bed and getting up to put some clothes on.

He noted that Greg seemed a touch recovered.

Greg was standing more upright, the tone of his voice was more neutral than melancholy, and his eyes seemed a little brighter.

“How are you feeling this morning?” Mycroft inquired tenderly, putting on a pair of soft buckskin slippers.

Greg thought for a moment.

He supposed that he was feeling remarkably better, though he was still tired.

“All right, actually.” Greg told him with a small smile.

“Not back to ‘normal’, but still, a lot better.” He added, stretching his arms above his head and yawning.

Mycroft seized this opportunity to grab Greg around the waist, surprising him with a tight hug from behind.

“Good, I am glad to hear it.” Mycroft told him earnestly, feeling somewhat relieved.

Greg grinned lopsidedly.

“Oh, get off of me, you sap.” Greg teased him, beginning to feel even better.

At last, his dark feelings were waning.

Mycroft gave him another squeeze, before releasing him.

Greg turned around and kissed him deeply, feeling his sexual appetite returning as he tasted Mycroft’s mouth.

As his hands found their way into Mycroft’s silky hair, his stomach rumbled noisily.

Mycroft gave him a small smile, breaking away from the embrace.

“I shall return shortly with our morning meal, wait for me here.” He instructed, giving Greg a quick peck on the cheek. “I shan’t be long.”

Greg sat down on the bed, nodding.

 

 

Mycroft went into the kitchen and swiftly made them both a delicious breakfast of sliced fruits, two types of cheese, and tea.

The meal didn’t last long, partly because Greg was becoming impatient to end the meal and also because he was rather hungry.

As Greg chewed the last of his breakfast, he began to determine what his first move should be.

Or, if he would let Mycroft begin.

He could see a crafty look creeping onto his lover’s face, and Greg could feel himself beginning to go red in the face.

He never had grown out of blushing, and while it could be quite bothersome at times, Mycroft adored it.

Even yet, there were times when he would purposely cause Greg to do so, and he took evident amusement from it.

Greg swallowed, and set the tray aside, leaning in to kiss Mycroft’s supple mouth.

He could feel his lower lip softly being nibbled as the kiss grew more passionate.

Greg’s breathing became more rapid, as his desire grew.

Mycroft let his lips languidly travel down Greg’s cheek, to his jawline, and then down his throat.

His hands traced along Greg’s smooth back, causing him to quiver lightly with the sensation of fingers skimming his skin so teasingly.

After days of not wanting to be touched, of feeling more or less apathetic towards most everything, now Greg utterly craved the attention that he was currently receiving.

“Shall we take a shower?” Mycroft asked him, his voice husky with desire.

Greg nodded. “Yeah, that sounds good to me.” He replied breathily, and followed Mycroft into their private bathroom.

 

 

In a rather unembellished flat on Daventry Street, DI Dimmock and a team of officers were working away, when John and Sherlock arrived on the scene.

Dimmock promptly showed Sherlock to the large window in the den, which a few thick ropes led out of.

Sherlock looked out of the window to view four bodies, each one suspended in mid-air with rope affixed quite firmly about the neck.

None of the corpses were clothed, and each one had a small incision on the inner thigh, the only visible clue which seemingly linked the murders.

Sherlock squinted.

The thread looked to differ from the variety that had been used on the previous two bodies.

The colour, as well as the stitching, immediately stood out.

Whoever it was that had done this was not the same person who had committed the first two crimes.

Still, it was possible that there was a link.

Santiago and Harcourt had both been men that had been in the public eye, having held jobs that leant them some media publicity.

They had both worked on the city council, and their status with the populace was neutral.

The four people who had been hanged out the window, however, seemed to have been chosen arbitrarily.

One was a young woman who had just begun working as a nurse at King’s College Hospital.

Two were a married couple in their mid-forties, and had been on vacation from Canada.

And the last was a boy of only perhaps three years old, whom they were currently working to identify.

Sherlock tried to find some sort of connection that could possibly explain how these murders were connected, though nothing came to his mind.

It was obvious that these four individuals had been selected at random, which simply did not fit with the first two crimes.

The information of the coins found in Harcourt and Santiago’s legs had been kept quiet, it wasn’t as though it had been broadcasted in that morning’s paper.

Which made the possibility of this being the work of a copycat that much slimmer.

Of course, once Sherlock was able to look at the bodies closer, he might have substantially more to go on.

After imparting the information that he had gathered by this point, Dimmock gave the go ahead to a couple of his officers to have the bodies pulled in and put into body bags.

Sherlock and John completed a quick examination of the flat, before heading to St. Bartholomew’s to have a better look at the cadavers.

Not surprisingly, the search of the pathetic domicile had yielded nothing, with the exception of a small scrap of torn grey fabric.

Sherlock figured that it was more than likely from a pair of trousers, which had been fairly new.

 

 

After a steamy shower, Greg and Mycroft headed back into the bedroom.

Lip locked, Mycroft backed Greg against the bed, gently pushing him down.

As Mycroft began to kneel in front of Greg, he heard his lover tell him to wait.

“What is it, my dear?” He replied, looking up into those warm brown eyes.

“You’ve done enough for me over the past few days,” Greg began. “Let me do something for you.”

Mycroft didn’t really feel that he had done all that much for Greg, and would have liked to have done more.

But, he supposed that to Greg, that such acts had been quite significant.

“As you wish.” Mycroft told him, allowing himself to be pulled onto the bed into a sitting position.

Greg brought him in for another kiss, sliding the bedside table's upper drawer open in order to grab a small bottle of lube before embracing him tightly.

He flicked open the cap, warming an amount of the slick liquid in his left hand.

“I really do love you, so much.” Greg whispered, before letting his fingers trail tantalisingly slowly down Mycroft’s abdomen.

“As I love you in return.” Mycroft intoned throatily, his eyes half-mast as Greg wrapped a hand around Mycroft’s firm cock.

Greg began to gently stroke the appendage, and Mycroft closed his eyes and lay down.

A minute or two later, he released his grip, leaning in to kiss the tender skin below Mycroft’s navel.

Greg made his way to the leaking member, tasting the pre-cum that had begun to drip down his ridged magnitude.

Greg mouthed the head, before tonguing Mycroft’s length in an almost tortuous fashion.

As Mycroft began to moan softly, halfway between impatience and ecstasy, Greg took him into his mouth.

As Greg bobbed his head, he could feel Mycroft’s body begin to grow taut, knew that tell-tale whimper that signalled the impending orgasm.

Greg slowed his movements slightly, wanting the sensations of his lover’s climax to last, savouring the intense look on Mycroft’s face.

As he felt Mycroft’s familiar tremors, Greg tasted the salty cum in his mouth.

It was a flavour that he neither enjoyed nor disliked, and as he let Mycroft’s cock slip out of his hot mouth, he swallowed as Mycroft watched him through barely open eyes.

Greg’s own cock was painfully hard, and he was in dire need of sexual release, which Mycroft had not been unaware of.

After catching his breath, he reciprocated, giving Greg just as much pleasure as he’d received.

By the end, they were both entirely sated and tired.

After another quick shower, they lay down together in bed, sleep taking hold once more.


	4. Chapter 4

As Sherlock looked over the four bodies, it became even more apparent that the criminal that had murdered these victims was most certainly not the same one that had killed Harcourt and Santiago.

However, it was most certainly someone who had been involved in the latter murders.

Sherlock frowned as his mind raced, going over all of the information in exquisitely intense deliberation.

It seemed to him that it was quite possible that these deaths were merely a distraction to keep them off of the real trail.

Whether or not this was the case, it was evident that at least two people were involved in the crimes.

The coins were what really intrigued Sherlock.

If he could decipher the meaning behind it, if any, then he would likely have some solid insight into the situation.

Of course, the possible meanings were practically endless…

 

 

After studying the thread underneath a microscope in one of St. Bart’s laboratories, and running various tests on it, he learned that it contained a very specific hazardous chemical that had been used by only a single thread company that had been shut down nearly a decade previously.

Dimethylmercury.

Bobbin’s Sewing Thread Company had claimed to use the chemical in order to ‘stabilise their dyes’, and had claimed not to know of the deadly consequences of using it.

Quite a number of their staff, and of course, customers, had expired painfully due to dimethylmercury poisoning and it was only a matter of a few weeks after opening that the business was shut down and arrests were made.

John, who had been watching Sherlock half-dazedly, blinked a few times and walked over after noticing the deepening interest written all over his face.

“What is it?” He asked, as Sherlock stretched his long neck.

Sherlock explained what his findings on the thread were, eliciting a frown from John.

“And, what does that mean, exactly?” He inquired, shoving a hand in his trouser pocket.

Sherlock suddenly stood up, a look of distinct concern on his face.

“Molly…” He said lowly, a hint of uneasiness in his deep voice.

John raised an eyebrow, unsure of what to make of this.

“What about her?” He questioned curiously, wondering about Sherlock’s abrupt unease.

Sherlock swallowed, taking his mobile out of his inner jacket pocket and swiftly calling Molly, ignoring John for the moment.

John pressed his lips into a thin line, knowing by the fact that Sherlock was ignoring him like this that something was really wrong.

Sherlock blinked, waiting for her to pick up her phone.

After six rings, it went through to Molly’s voicemail.

She was never one to let her mobile go unanswered, and that there was no reply worried Sherlock further.

He hung up, and dialled 999.

When Sherlock got through to emergency personnel, he explained the situation and told them to send an ambulance to Molly’s address.

After he hung up, he turned to John, explaining things clearly.

“The thread, John, it’s laced with dimethylmercury. While latex gloves are, for the most part, non-porous, dimethylmercury can still penetrate through.” Sherlock told him.

“Molly examined each one of those four bodies, removed the thread herself. And then she’d had to end her shift early due to feeling suddenly unwell.” Sherlock went on. “”It’s entirely likely that she’s been poisoned by the thread.”

“There is no record of any single person surviving dimethylmercury poisoning, John…” He added quietly.

John’s eyes widened.

“But, you know of something that might be able to save her if that’s what’s wrong, don’t you?” John asked hopefully.

Sherlock looked down at the floor, a lump forming in his throat.

“No.” He answered regretfully, hoping for what was only the second time in his life, that he was wrong.

John’s eyes darted to Sherlock’s hands.

“You… You’ve been handling the thread yourself.” John stammered, his pulse beginning to elevate with the sudden stress.

“With tweezers, John.” Sherlock reassured him. “I haven’t handled it with my hands, there’s no need to worry about me.”

John relaxed visibly, relief flooding through him before his thoughts returned to Molly.

 

Greg and Mycroft awoke later that afternoon, enjoying Greg’s last day off for a while.

As they lay in bed, the sunlight streamed through the large stained-glass window, dancing playfully along the walls.

Neither of them spoke, content to merely be with one another.

Greg cuddled up to Mycroft’s side, draping an arm over his tummy.

Mycroft smiled, enjoying being held like this.

He’d never expected to have such a relationship, had been fully prepared to spend the rest of his days alone.

And, Mycroft appreciated Greg greatly and tried to make sure that his feelings came across in everything he did for Greg.

“My…” Greg began, looking up into his eyes.

“I think that we should have a romantic dinner out tonight.”

Mycroft blinked.

He hadn’t been expecting that to come out of Greg’s mouth.

They didn’t exactly go out often together, and rarely as a couple.

Greg’s insecurities tended to make things a little difficult at times, and certainly hindered possibilities of public fun.

“Oh?” He replied, knowing that Greg had more to say.

“Well, it’s just that I think it’s time I began making an effort in being less uptight about what other people might think or say about us, and about me.” Greg went on.

“I want us to be able to have a normal relationship, to be able to just be myself and not worry about other people saying or thinking certain things.” He sighed.

Mycroft knew that this was a big step for Greg, and was happy to hear that he was beginning to take steps to not only have others accept him as he was, but that Greg was beginning to more deeply accept himself as well.

Mycroft held onto Greg’s hand.

“I’m proud of you.” He told Greg, giving him an encouraging nod.

Greg smiled lopsidedly, wondering if he was really up to the task.

Just the idea of such changes was quite stressful.

After all, Greg had gone most of his life trying to shove down who he really was, acting the way he thought other people felt that he should.

“You can do this, Greg. I know that you can.” Mycroft reassured him, reading the second thoughts on his face.

“I hope so.” Greg stated thoughtfully.

 

 

Sherlock had fairly demanded that he be informed when Molly arrived at the hospital, and it wasn’t very long before he’d received a call letting him know that she was in St. Bartholomew’s emergency ward.

After she’d been thoroughly examined, John and Sherlock were granted access to her room.

Molly had been taken to the ICU, and they’d needed to put on gowns and gloves in order to reduce the risk of further danger from bacteria.

She was strikingly pale, and looked so terribly fragile.

Sherlock went over to her side, looking down at her with a solemn look on his face.

Numerous tubes attached Molly to various machines, in hopes of reducing the damage that the chemical was currently inflicting.

The next forty-eight hours were crucial, and even if she survived beyond that time frame, the outlook for her was bleak.

Sherlock’s jaw tensed, as he struggled to think of anything that could help her.

Despite appearances, Molly had meant quite a lot to him, she had always mattered.

And, to see her in such a state, watching her slowly die, was painful for him.

John reached out, grabbing his hand.

Sherlock accepted it, squeezing the proffered hand.

John sniffed. “Are you okay, Sherlock?” He asked softly in concern.

Sherlock took a few moments before answering.

“I… Don’t know.” He said quietly, looking unblinkingly at Molly.

John bit his lip, not knowing what to say.

“The amount of dimethylmercury in that thread was more than I would have expected.” Sherlock stated, briefly considering chemotherapy as a possible treatment before realising that it would almost certainly prove to be futile.

“That Molly is already in a comatose state means that she doesn’t have long at all, John.” He went on, suddenly feeling angry that this happened.

“The coma could last for months, despite the brain steadily dying. Technically, Molly would still be alive, but her brain function would be at a minimum.” Sherlock finished grimly.

John swallowed, feeling an empty pit in his stomach.

Both he and Sherlock had grown quite fond of Molly, and it was an awful thing, being unable to help her.

“Come, John, there’s nothing we can do for her here.” Sherlock told him, finding it a little difficult to turn away from Molly’s unconscious form, but managing to do so.

John cleared his throat.

He supposed that Sherlock was right, but felt that someone should be with her.

After all, she had no family left and only had a few friends due to the long hours that she frequently worked.

“Are you coming?” Sherlock called back upon reaching the door, not looking back.

John blinked, feeling torn.

“Well… It’s just that… What if she wakes up and there’s nobody here?” John asked, knowing how it felt to wake up in the hospital alone and ill at ease.

“Molly will not be waking any time soon, I’m afraid.” Sherlock replied softly, feeling a weight in his chest beginning to grow.

John looked down at Molly, clasping her hand briefly before following Sherlock to change out of the gown that he’d been instructed to put on.


	5. Chapter 5

As they left the building, John noticed that familiar look come over Sherlock’s face.

“What is it?” John asked seriously, glancing up at the taller man. “You’ve got something, tell me.”

Sherlock blinked.

“You remember Horowitz, of course.” Sherlock began, referring to a morgue attendant whom they’d had the displeasure of dealing with a few times in the past.

John nodded. “Yeah…” He replied with a shrug. “And?”

“According to the schedule hanging on the morgue wall, Horowitz was supposed to be working this morning’s shift. He called in sick.” Sherlock adjusted his signature scarf. “Yet he was loitering outside the building when we were at the flat on Daventry Street, and would appear to be well enough, going by his body language, the colour in his cheeks, and the fact that he hired an obvious prostitute from the street corner as he left the scene.”

John frowned, listening intently, knowing that there was more to hear.

As they walked on, Sherlock continued.

“The manner in which Horowitz was looking up at the bodies was not curiosity, but thinly veiled nervousness.” He stopped speaking, beginning to retreat into his thoughts. “Horowitz was displaying the exact sort of nervousness that belies inner guilt.”

“So, how is he involved with these murders?” John asked, prompting Sherlock to go on. “Do you think that he’s the killer?”

“He is nowhere near intelligent enough to put together something like this… While Horowitz is most definitely a factor in the killings, he is not the brains behind them.” Sherlock replied, only half out of his musings.

“It’s quite possible that he’s a mere lackey.” He added, rounding the corner. “Of course, that means that he quite likely knows far more about his employer’s efforts than he’s meant to.”

John was practically jogging to keep up with Sherlock’s great strides, tugging at the waistband of his trousers as they began to slide down.

Sherlock often picked up speed as he thought, which tended to annoy John a fair bit.

John wouldn’t have minded half as much, if only his own legs were just a little longer so that he’d have an easier time keeping up.

John puffed as he speed walked, wishing that he was in better shape.

Sherlock noticed this, and slowed his pace a touch.

“You’re lagging.” Sherlock complained, glancing down at John, who gave him a dry, annoyed chuckle.

“Well, maybe if I’d had a decent breakfast or at least something for lunch, I’d have the energy to keep up with those long legs of yours.” John grumped. “Not to mention, that I hardly slept last night. Between Hamish’s cries, you taking up practically the whole bed and being a blanket thief, I wasn’t exactly getting a whole lot of rest.” He let out a pained sigh.

John had often found himself cold and without much room on the bed due to Sherlock’s sleeping habits.

“Lagging and cantankerous.” Sherlock amended teasingly, causing John to groan in aggravation.

Sherlock grinned, laughing gently.

He stopped, leaned down, and placed a kiss on John’s nose.

John blinked, caught off guard as he felt his aggravation slipping away.

“Come along.” Sherlock told him, his voice a little softer than before as he began walking again. “I’ll buy you lunch, but we must be quick.”

 

 

Sherlock found a nice little restaurant a block or so further down the street, a place that he recalled dining at precisely two years, eight months, one day and forty-six minutes ago.

As John ate a well-made ham and swiss cheese sandwich on toasted rye, Sherlock sat across from him, deep in fervent thought.

While he was there physically, Sherlock was so immersed in his thoughts that John couldn’t have made conversation with him if he tried. (which he did, twice)

Molly was among the very small circle of people that Sherlock actually cared about, and with her life in such peril, he was doing his damnedest to find a solution to the rather grim problem at hand.

He had been enjoying the case up until he had realised that the dimethylmercury had entered Molly’s system, and now the situation had changed dramatically.

While he had never admitted to it, Sherlock felt notably close to Molly.

True, he rarely held important conversations with her the way that most people would with a person they cared about.

However, there was an undeniable bond between them, though it remained unspoken.

In the past, Sherlock had even frightened off a few suitors that he deemed unfit for Molly, something that he’d kept very much to himself.

And he intended to make the person ultimately responsible for Molly’s suffering pay dearly for the trauma they had inflicted.

He had no qualms whatsoever when it came to protecting the ones he did care about.

As Sherlock silently contemplated, his eyes grew quite cold.

John noticed this, and shuddered involuntarily.

Sherlock was ultimately an intense man, in everything that he did.

And the icy look that sparkled in his eyes was fierce.

John hoped to never be on the receiving end of one of those stares.

 

 

Meanwhile, Greg and Mycroft had a light meal of beef and barley stew as they discussed a multitude of topics.

One of the things that Greg loved about Mycroft was the way that he never ran out of conversation material.

Even after all this time, they had never run out of things to talk about.

Greg was swallowing a spoonful of stew when Mycroft had brought up the subject of children, causing him to sputter and choke.

“What?” Greg asked in a strained tone, trying not to react badly and fearing that it was too late for that.

Mycroft repeated himself calmly.

“Have you ever entertained the notion of becoming a father?” He replied softly, feeling quite confident that he knew the answer already, but wanting to hear it directly from Greg.

Greg blinked and set his spoon down, disregarding the rest of his meal.

He wasn’t feeling altogether hungry now, anyway.

“Er, well…” Greg stammered as he felt his stress levels rise. Mycroft waited patiently for Greg to continue.

“See, the thing is, I…” Greg started, rubbing the back of his neck absentmindedly. “I’m not…”

Greg sighed, feeling incredibly awkward. 

“I’m not exactly fond of kids, My.” He carefully answered at last. “I don’t hate them or anything. I just… I like them at a distance, is all.”

Mycroft gave a small nod.

“Yes, I thought so.” He said musingly. “There’s no need to be so restrained in regards to how you feel about the subject, Greg.”

Mycroft smiled reassuringly.

“We share the same attitude in that respect.” He added, reaching for his water glass and taking a drink.

After their parents had perished rather suddenly when Mycroft was only sixteen, he’d decided to raise Sherlock on his own.

With no extended family, and no family friends that would have taken them in, Mycroft had known what sort of options were left.

It hadn’t been easy to persuade the appropriate officials that he was capable of raising his younger brother, but he’d managed.

After bringing Sherlock up, he had no desire of doing the same with another child.

Not after the difficulties that he‘d faced with Sherlock.

Greg looked relieved.

“I merely wanted to make absolutely certain as to your opinion.” Mycroft explained. “After all, if you did want to sire a child, it would be a matter to undertake sooner rather than later.”

Greg nodded.

“Fair enough.” He responded, content with the result of the conversation.

Greg had been worried for a moment there, sure that Mycroft was about to tell him that he wanted kids and soon.

He’d never been keen on children, not even when he’d been one himself.

 

 

After John had finished eating, and Sherlock had eased himself out of his reverie, they headed out.

Sherlock hailed a cab, which took them to Brixton Prison, where Barbara Bell, the woman who had owned and operated Bobbin’s Sewing Thread Company now resided.

She had been sentenced for sixty years to life for the deaths that had been caused from dimethylmercury poisoning, as well as for employee endangerment.

One of the employees that had died had been her own son, and the loss had taken its toll on her mind.

She had been born a touch mad, though most people hadn’t taken notice in the past, but now it was unmistakeable that she was mentally damaged.

 

 

After a half hour drive, John and Sherlock arrived at the gaol.

Since Sherlock had texted Dimmock on the way over, letting him know where they were headed and as little as possible as to why, they had been granted almost immediate access to the prisoner.

 

 

Barbara Bell had never been a very intellectual sort of woman by any means, and her attention span had grown increasingly shorter over her lifetime.

Two aspects of her which irked Sherlock to a fair degree, though he restrained himself from making acidic comments that would only hinder their advancement on the case.

There was no time to be wasted.

“I’ll ask you once more, who else assisted you with your business who was not tried in court?” Sherlock inquired in a deep tone, his nostrils beginning to flare.

They had already spent nearly a half hour with this woman, and it would seem that John and Sherlock were simply entertainment to her.

Barbara merely looked up at him, the barest trace of amusement on her pudgy face.

Sherlock let out a breath.

“You do realise that should you choose not to cooperate, you can be removed from your comfortable little room and placed back into a cell like you were located when you first came here?” Sherlock more told than asked her.

“All of the niceties that you have been extended as a privilege, taken away, and you placed back in a cold, cramped cell.” Sherlock continued, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “You might even be fortunate enough to be given company. Someone like Angela Hardrow, perhaps.”

Barbara’s entire body stiffened.

She recalled Angela Hardrow rather vehemently.

While poor Angela had never directly done anything at all to Barbara, her severe OCD and anxiety attacks had driven Barbara up the wall.

She hated Angela with a passion, after being locked up with her for nearly three years.

And of course, the prospect of giving up her things, and her privacy, were not exactly welcome ideas.

Sherlock watched as his words sunk into her pathetically simple mind.

Barbara sighed.

“Why does it even ma’er?” She asked in a croaky tone, her voice weak from not using it much in quite a long while.

John crossed his legs in the chair that he sat in, becoming a touch impatient.

“If you would simply answer my question.” Sherlock replied, looking down at her from where he stood in the middle of the small room. “Why my query matters should be of no consequence to you.”

Barbara pouted, looking like an ugly, overgrown child, and remained silent for a moment.

“Kingsley Barns.” She said quietly, her tone strange.

“And who was he to you back then?” Sherlock asked her, watching her closely.

“Jus’ an employee.” Barbara shrugged. “He’d come in off the street, lookin’ fer a job. Seemed to know wot ‘e was doin’. Made ‘im supervisor after a coupla days.”

“And who’s decision was it to use the so-called ‘stabaliser’?” Sherlock inquired, certain that she would take responsibility for the action now, as she had in court.

“Mine.” She answered, though from the look on her face and the way she’d gathered a bit of the blanket with her hand and squeezed it insecurely, that she was lying.

“So it was Barns, then.” Sherlock stated knowingly.

Barbara glared at him.

“Can’t you hear?” She spat at him. “It was me, you pompous git!”

“Do you know where Barns is now?” Sherlock asked her.

Barbara shook her head ‘no’, seething.

“Bastard ‘asn’t seen me once since I been banged up in ‘ere.” She growled angrily. “N after ‘e told me ‘e loved me n all.”

Sherlock looked outside, signalling the employee in the hall to let them out.

He left without a word, while John mumbled a hurried ‘Thanks’.

Sherlock was working away on his mobile, searching for any sort of information on Kingsley Barns.

There wasn’t all that much to find, really.

A few newspaper articles about Bobbin’s, and a couple of small mentions that weren’t particularly noteworthy.

As they reached the kerb outside the gaol, Sherlock found something substantial.

“What is it?” John asked, looking up at Sherlock, hoping that it was going to be something very helpful to the case.

“Barns is dead.” Sherlock responded. “He has been for two and a half years.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Great. That’s just great.” He grumbled, kicking at a stone.

“However, Kingsley Barns was a lieutenant in her Majesty’s Royal Army from 1996 up until he was killed in the line of duty.” Sherlock finished.

John blinked.

“So, then…” He started before trailing off, realising that things were getting more difficult the more they progressed.

“We’re looking for another man entirely.” Sherlock replied, and hailed a cab.

 

As they sat in the vehicle, Sherlock gave Mrs. Hudson a call, letting her know that it might be in the late hours of the evening before they could pick Hamish up and asking how she was doing.

Of course, Mrs. Hudson didn’t mind in the least, and told him that everything was just fine.

Just as Mrs. Hudson hung up, John asked Sherlock to pass the mobile over.

“She’s hung up, I’m afraid.” He told John, who frowned.

“Hamish is fine.” Sherlock assured him. “And, anyways, you wouldn’t have been able to talk to her right now. She’s down for a nap.”

John nodded.

While he did enjoy having a case, he did fret about Hamish.

Even if it had only been a matter of a few hours, John was missing his daughter terribly.

Not to mention, what if something went wrong?

“We’ve got to focus.” Sherlock told him, putting the topic of Hamish aside for the moment.

Naturally, he felt much the same as John did, but their attention was needed elsewhere for the moment.

“Now, I’ve got the name of an employee who may be able to help us.” Sherlock began.

“Jason Humboldt worked for Bell since the day Bobbin’s opened, and it’s entirely likely that he can give us a fairly accurate description of the man we seek.” He put his mobile in his pocket.

John looked confused as he glanced at the phone.

“I thought that your mobile was broken, out of commission.” He said, tilting his head a bit.

“Yes, well, I fixed it.” Sherlock told him matter-of-factly. “Though I believe that the information I’ve just given you is ever so slightly more interesting.”

John retrieved a mint from his pocket, and popped it into his mouth, rolling the crinkling wrapper between his fingers.

“Perhaps you ought to go home, John.” Sherlock stated thoughtfully.

“What, why?” John asked, wondering what had brought this on.

Sherlock watched him, taking note of all the little signs that John was allowing himself to get too involved in the case.

Naturally, John would have a certain extent of feelings when it came down to it, but it was beginning to affect his thinking and his well-being.

Sherlock explained this as gently as he could, not wanting to upset John even more.

John sighed.

“Okay, fine, you’ve got a point.” He agreed. “But, I’m going to stress and worry just as much at home as I will if I’m with you. And, if I stay with you, then at least I might be able to help out.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Or you could end up hindering me.” Sherlock pointed out validly.

John opened his mouth, feeling a touch offended.

“I didn’t mean it that way, John.” Sherlock told him soothingly.

“I know.” John replied, feeling useless. “It’s just, I want to help. Especially with everything that’s involved.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Yes, but what's involved is exactly the problem. I can distance myself enough from all of the emotion, allowing myself to think clearly. You cannot.” Sherlock reminded him needlessly. “And considering that we may or may not run across dimethylmercury in the pursuit of these criminals, I would need you to be at your very best. The risk to our lives with this case is greater than you realise, John.”

John wanted to be able to counter this, to come up with a good argument as to why Sherlock needed him along.

But, in all truth, he simply could not find one.

“Right.” John replied quietly, accepting that Sherlock was correct.

As always.

 

 

After reaching the address of one Jason Humboldt, Sherlock said goodbye to John, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before the cabbie took John to Baker Street.

As he took a breath of cool, fresh air, he suddenly realised that it had been years since he’d worked on a complicated case on his own like this.

It felt… Odd.

 

 

Sherlock walked up the flagstone path up to a rather sizeable white house and rang the doorbell.

For such a lovely house, the chime did not suit it at all.

Crass and shrill, it was quite an awful sound.

It was only a matter of seconds before the door was opened by a remarkably tall, muscular young man.

“Yes?” He said to Sherlock, looking down at him.

The man was very nearly seven and a half feet tall.

“Your name is Jason Humboldt?” Sherlock inquired, standing as straight as he could, feeling somewhat short in stature.

The man nodded.

“May I come in? There is a rather important matter that needs to be discussed.” Sherlock inquired politely.

Humboldt nodded again.

“Yeah, sure. Just be certain to take your footwear off, we've only just had new carpet installed.” He told Sherlock.

Sherlock stepped inside, taking off his shiny leather shoes to reveal black socks with intricate golden patterns on them.

Humboldt looked down at the socks in amusement, before asking if Sherlock would like a cup of tea.

Sherlock declined, and Humboldt showed him into the den.

“I didn’t catch your name.” Humboldt said, sitting down in a large beige chair. 

There was quite a lot of beige inside the house, which struck Sherlock as rather hideous.

He had never been fond of the dreadful colour.

“Sherlock Holmes.” He responded, sitting on the overstuffed beige sofa.

Humboldt pointed at him.

“I know you, you’re that detective!” He said excitedly. 

“I’ve got a real life celebrity in my house, how about that?” He grinned widely.

“So, what brings you here to my humble abode?” 

Sherlock bit back the desire to correct the man, to tell him that he did not, in fact, ‘know’ him.

“I’m here to inquire about Kingsley Barns, I expect you know him from when you worked at Bobbin’s Sewing Thread Company.” He explained tonelessly, watching the man closely.

Humboldt’s grin disappeared quickly, to be replaced be a disgusted look.

“Kingsley Barns, what a miserable sonofabitch he was…” He crossed his arms as he remembered the man.

“Always pushing the employees past their breaking point, making more work for everyone, not sending the pay packets out when they were supposed to be.” He continued, griping loudly. “You know, I don’t think the man even knew how to do his job. I’m pretty sure the only reason he was there is because he was slipping it to the twit who ran the place.”

Sherlock brushed a stray curl out of his eyes.

“What did he look like?” He questioned.

Humboldt thought how to describe him.

“Maybe 5’6, reed thin, greasy brown hair. He had dark grey eyes and a small tattoo behind his left ear, a black outline of a circle.” He said slowly. “Ugly little man with an ugly personality.”

“I don’t suppose that you’ve seen him around, perchance?” Sherlock asked carefully.

Humboldt shook his head. 

“Naw, I haven’t seen that little bastard since Bobbin’s was closed down.” He responded, scratching his neck. “Last I heard, he was trying to find work at the local nick as a warden. ‘Course that was just a rumour, mind you.”

Sherlock steepled his hands beneath his chin.

“Did you ever hear of him being called by another name, even a nickname?” He inquired.

Humboldt gave a small ‘hmmm’.

“Well, no.” He answered. “Though, he did call me a few times on my mobile. His name came up as Patrick Donahue. I just figured that he’d borrowed a mate’s phone or something.”

Humboldt excused himself to grab a couple of beers from the fridge, offering one to Sherlock before he sat back down.

Of course, Sherlock declined.

Humboldt shrugged, opening one and taking a swig from the glass bottle before setting it down on a coaster.

“What’s he done, out of curiosity?” He asked, getting comfortable in the chair.

Sherlock stood up, buttoning his jacket again.

“I’m not at liberty to divulge such a fact at this point in time.” He lied.

Sherlock knew that Humboldt was just the sort of man to tell his drinking buddies, or anyone who would listen, that one of his ex-supervisors was a wanted criminal that was being sought after by the great Sherlock Holmes.

And that simply would not do.

He couldn’t risk it being broadcasted about.

Sherlock bid him good day, and left.


End file.
